


He (Eames says okay)

by Bookshelf



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: (also), Can't believe that's a tag, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Trans Arthur, Trans Male Character, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic, basically i'm struggling so i wanted to make arthur struggle too yay, rated teen for mild language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 22:25:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11427456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookshelf/pseuds/Bookshelf
Summary: A trans!Arthur fic because I can't sleep[this might get a bit stylistically weird](see end notes for more details if you want)





	He (Eames says okay)

He didn't do any research, at first. Which is odd. Arthur researches everything, researching things, knowing  _how, what, when, why,_ is his fucking job. He's great at it. The best Point-Man in Dreamshare. And Yet. 

He knows about it--in the abstract and not so abstract--knows enough to buy a binder from a reputable and discreet distributor--he has to have it sent to the safe-house in Florida, which means that he has to  _go to Florida_ to pick it up, yuck, but that's not the point. 

The point is

The point is he stays in Florida for a whole week. He's alone, and it's hot, and there are a million fucking bugs, but. He doesn't leave the safe-house once in that whole week. He's careful to only wear it for as long as recommended--never longer, no matter how much taking it off makes it hard to fucking breathe--. After the week is over he leaves, leaves the binder in the top drawer of the dresser left of the bed, knowing it won't be found because Eames always uses the one on the right. He does not think about it again. 

Until, of course, it's four weeks later, and he's staring into a cup of  _Jasmine Tea, four sugars no milk,_ and his chest won't stop fucking hurting every time he catches a glance of it. But he can't go back to Florida, not yet anyway. Right now they're in the middle of Ireland on a case, and Eames is talking, and Arthur _should be listening_. 

Eames knows that Arthur is being too quiet, isn't interrupting him enough. He's glancing at him out of the corner of his eye while he's talking to an extractor that Arthur  _can't even bring himself to remember the name of because all he can see is--_ Eames has this way of looking at someone, so that no one else in the room even knows, except for Arthur of course, because Arthur had made a point to learn each and everyone of Eames' facial expressions

 

> \--to make sure he wasn't hiding anything, at first. Because that was Arthur's job, and Arthur was the best, and Eames was a  _target._ But then--

It's six months later and Arthur has been back to Florida exactly five times. Way too frequently for any sort of decent safe-house, so Arthur has to burn it. And move the binder. And then explain to Eames why he has to set up a new safe-house in the American South East (He told him it was some new local gang causing trouble, and Arthur hadn't wanted them to be too close, just in case the authorities got involved--Eames agreed, but the look said--). 

It had been six months and Eames couldn't know. Eames couldn't know. Arthur could know--and Arthur  _knew_ , there was no going back from that--but Eames could never. Arthur looked enough like himself already anyway. He didn't need anything else. He could live in these small weekends and endless slow weeks without Eames and be perfectly happy during those quiet mornings and adrenaline blurred missions with Eames. He could. 

Until he couldn't. Until every glance in the mirror resulted in an angry heart and dropped stomach. Until he started to like it better when Eames played  _Mr. Professional_ on missions and called him Arthur instead of when he was himself at home and sighing  _NotMe._

 

> He still liked it when Eames called him Darling. Which was a relief, but that didn't negate the horrible sticky sadness that came with losing  _NotMe._

Arthur had had to read a book in a dream once. It had been an odd experience, not one that he would likely repeat--pages full of uncensored thought, feelings--both emotions and _touch, taste, see, hear_ \--mixed with observation, mixed with speech--an entirely unwelcome look into the subject's subconscious. That was what this was like. Hearing  _NotMe_ and she and her, people talking about Arthur but Not Arthur. Arthur felt like he was reading a book of his own thoughts, there and yet not, standing in front of a cluttered white board and trying to connect  _NotArthur_ with Arthur. 

 

And so Arthur slipped. 

Of course Arthur slipped. 

Despite knowing what every single one of his looks meant and being able to tell when he was lying and half-lying and re-telling a lie he only half thought was true--Arthur could never keep anything from Eames. Especially not this. This, which kept clawing at the inside of his throat, a swallowed scream, begging for someone to  _just fucking hear it._

And so Arthur slipped on purpose. 

He stopped hiding his distaste with she and her and  _NotArthur._ He wore his binders more often--so he could stand to leave the house without looking like he was preparing for winter--and gave his tailor slightly different instructions regarding cut. Now all he was missing was the right chest and face and body and--but he'd need to tell Eames first. Because

Because Eames deserved to know. Even if knowing would mean they'd no longer be Arthur&Eames. 

Arthur prepared for the worst, because. 

Because Eames wouldn't be like that

But would he?

He wouldn't. 

But would he?

 

So one day Arthur put on his binder--the one he'd rescued from Florida--and he'd done his hair the way he'd  _always wanted to,_ and he'd told himself that telling Eames was a step forward, that telling Eames meant more and meant _sooner_ , that even if Eames _would_ (he wouldn't), he'd been fine on his own before and could be fine on his own again (he wouldn't). 

He sat in their bed next to Eames, waiting for him to wake up, waiting to hear the, _"Darling, whilst I appreciate seeing your lovely face first thing in the morning, staring is a bit rude, mm?"_ Arthur would laugh, but because he's nervous it wouldn't be real, and Eames would Know, so he'd sit up and grab Arthur's hand and wait for him tell him,

" _What's wrong, love?"_

Arthur tells him because Eames deserves to know. Except he must not say it right because Eames is hugging him and saying, _"it's okay"_ and _"I still love you"_ and _"I'll always love you"_ except he says  _NotArthur_ and since Eames Already Knows Arthur tells him to stop, that that's Not Arthur. Eames says okay. 

Says  _"What else should I call you?"_  

And Arthur must be crying again (did he stop?) because he doesn't know, because he didn't research, because all this time he's been thinking of Eames not knowing, and hasn't been able to think about anything else. 

And Eames says okay.

And Eames says they'll find out together. 

And Arthur, well. 

Arthur starts researching. 

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur is FtM in this fic (if it wasn't obvious, I hope it was obvious???). I didn't use his old name or pronouns because by the time the fic starts they aren't really his anymore. Arthur is his last name in this so at the end Eames is asking for his new given name. 
> 
> //i'm incapable of writing anything long ugh. feel free to leave criticism in comments


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